


Resonating Current

by Zenolalia



Series: Make or Break [1]
Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, IDK what the rating would be age wise but it's NSFW for sure, M/M, Multi, Pre-AkuRokuShi, Xion has a number of unresolved issues and none of them will be addressed in any way here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:49:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenolalia/pseuds/Zenolalia
Relationships: Axel/Roxas (Kingdom Hearts)
Series: Make or Break [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124759
Kudos: 2





	Resonating Current

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guropiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guropiss/gifts).



The worst part, Xion thinks as she stares at the back of her eyelids with unwavering resolve, is that they think she can’t hear them. It just invites so many questions! Have they done this before? When she was gone? When she wasn’t even finished being made?

Roxas is barely, barely a week older than her, but he was born out of something solid and whole and it only took him a few days to become himself, and she took months and was this what they were doing during those months? It’s not like she thought they were waiting in stasis for her to arrive, but being cut out like this leaves her mind racing with all kinds of ungenerous imaginings.

She doesn’t move. She’s never moved in her sleep before; if she moves now, they’re going to know. So she holds perfectly still, thinks of the cool moment between summon her keyblade and landing the first blow, the liquid patience. It’s not actually harder than fighting the people she loves, just so she could drag herself to her own execution had been.

If her lovely new heart is pounding in her chest with an intensity that she’s never known before, that’s to be expected. She’s whole now.

Like Roxas. Like Lea.

Not like them enough to be allowed to see Lea’s chest shake, but enough to guess at it from the stutter in his breath.

Not like them enough to correct the syncopation in Roxas’s right elbow, just barely out of step with his leading left. But near enough to recognize the rhythm in the susurrus of soft blankets over skin. She’s seen him dual weild before. She can guess exactly why that rhythm would be buzzing through their--her--their bedroom.

She wants to feel sorrow. She wants to mourn for the fact that somehow she got everything she could ever have dreamed, and she was still too little, too late, too leftover. She wants to mourn for the little girl she never got to be, for the way her face has only ever gotten to cry Sora’s tears, and even now she can’t even have new tears of her own, because she can’t break them in half just to make herself feel better.

It would be so much easier to just be sad.

Instead, all she feels is jaw-shattering rage. The electric ache of her teeth grinding into the sockets of her gums as she counts the beats, the breaths. If she’s not careful, she bites down hard enough to burst fireworks of static behind her closed eyes.

The heat in her outraged chest boils just that fraction higher, hotter than the heat in her hips.

She doesn’t even know how to be angry. The last time she tried, she looped around to terrified, died, and ended up a puppet on the wrong side of a war.

But every barely restrained hiccup from Lea, every studious absence of sound from Roxas, makes her want to learn.

Unpracticed notions of beating Roxas black and blue in front of Lea during training tomorrow percolate. She could never do it, of course. Not the winning, she’s more than proven she can put both of them in the ground. But she couldn’t actually go through with tearing her pound out of his flesh.

She’s also proven that ‘the three of us, together’ was too optimistic.

Still, the fantasy is a nice distraction from the reality in Roxas’s bed. She matches the imaginary thuds of her keyblade against Roxas’s shoulders and the backs of his knees to the whisper of his comforter, and studiously doesn’t think about any other blunt weapons. She lets the fantasy Xion’s chest rise and fall in time with Lea’s breathing, and ignores the way her very real chest aches to be touched.

The blows are heavier now, the avatar of her self loathing thudding against a vicious fantasy of Roxas too relentlessly for his speed and deflections to withstand. She lets herself imagine the rhythm belongs to her, until it stutters out from her control, faster than she would go, less steady, less enduring. Lea never has known how to pace himself.

Or when to shut up.

This is the worst part. Where they’re so invested in each other that they forget to even pretend they care about her rest.

The part where Lea’s breathing stutters into a rush of ‘Roxas’ and ‘please’ and ‘need’ and even though he’s obviously trying to whisper, she’s so drawn into their gravity that his barely too loud voice may as well be screaming in her ear. The part where Roxas’s perfect dexterity slips, and with it the blanket,leaving the unmuffled slap of skin on skin.

She won’t look. She never looks.

If she looked, she’d never be able to ‘sleep’ through it again, and as much as they don’t want her here, neither she nor Roxas can possibly sleep apart. Lea can barely even keep himself out of their room long enough to remember he has his own room. She doesn’t care to find out how long her new body could go without sleeping. It’s a matter of life and death that she resolutely not look.

She risks one deep, shaking breath of her own, safe in the knowledge that they’re too far gone to notice anything about her, that even if they weren’t, Lea is louder than she is anyway. She could probably roll out of bed, march over there, and flick them both on the nose before they even--

Roxas’s breath hitches, just barely, and it rockets through Xion’s entire body, a nuclear crush of memory. The feeling of having those ribs, those lungs. The shock that could make them flex so sharply.

Sleeping like a corpse isn’t her only skill set. She can’t collapse into a ball of starlight or fire and burst back out the way they can, but the door is only one decent lunge from her bed, and when she slams a dark barrier over it to seal out whatever imminent threat has caught Roxas’s lungs, it’s easy enough to let her body slip into the empty space between the shadows and careen out over Roxas’s mattress, feet spread to bracket the mess of their tangled bodies out of reflex.

It’s not until she follows Lea’s wide eyes to her keyblade held with lethal purpose on the center of his ribs that she catches up to herself, flings herself off Roxas’s bed backwards, caught up in his blankets and tripping over her own limbs. When she cracks her head against his bedframe so hard that the room turns to white static for a breathless moment, she finally gives up and goes limp.

All that rage, all that terror, wiped out and replaced with a curdling humiliation.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispers.

“Holy shit,” Lea says, which is not precisely the expected reaction, but it’s late enough to call it morning, they’ve been cutting her out of their lives for the better part of two hours in her own bedroom, she might have a concussion, and she definitely has no explanation for whatever just happened, so maybe her expectations are off-balance.

Roxas is blissfully silent, but Lea’s the one who actually squirms his too-long limbs off the bed and onto the pile of tangled fabric that has completely consumed Xion’s legs. He’s more naked than she expected. Somehow, in all the thinking and the listening, she’d always assumed he was still too flighty and fidgety to do something as committed as undressing. She feels a bit bad for the assumption, but when she says, “sorry,” it’s directed more at the floor beside her face than anything.

“What, you’ve pulled it before?” Lea asks. He’s…. excited? And the question is too weird a question for her to answer by herself. She hates how easy it is to roll her gaze up to Roxas and let him translate using his eyebrows.

Roxas’s eyebrows are unhelpful, frozen in surprise. His eyes, however, are pinned on Xion’s wrist.

On the keyblade that she still hasn’t released.

“Oh.” She’s never seen it before. No keychain or gear she’s ever picked up has made it look like this. She flexes her grip, watches the wickedly sharp tip of the keyblade bounce. Her entire existence, she’s been using Roxas’s—Sora’s—keyblade. It’s been a part of her for longer than there’s been a her.

This isn’t a borrowed reflection of someone else’s glory.

This is a pillar of light so bright that even written out of existence it had torn her from her sleep for one brief and blinding moment in the depths of Sora’s heart.

This is a fire hot enough to obliterate eons and tear a path to safety for her, for both of them, out of the grasping tendrils of an endless army.

This is a little boy so full of love and rage that he looked death in the eye and offered his soul for their lives.

This is the moment of absolute faith between taking a step off the edge of a clock tower, and planting her boot on solid air. The crescendo of each step, each strike, each breath building on the last until gravity gives up, and the earth yawns into an empty sunrise.

This thing building in her chest like a scream shattering glass, is her.

How dare they drag this out of her now, here? Tangled in Roxas’s blankets with Lea looking at her like she’s solved the universe, apparently having utterly forgotten that just because she’s got pajamas that doesn’t fix how naked they both are. Her eyes are hot and itchy and she will absolutely not cry.

It’s too sleek to be volcanic glass, molten curves flaring into a bulky safe key easily half a foot shorter than her kingdom key is. Was. The edge of each bit bursts into porcelain white and gleaming gold, pooling into deceptively blunt fingers that catch and curve the light. If she were to strike, somehow she knows it would throw up showers of iridescent sparks, not fire or light, but the vacuum-pops of black, leaving the photo-negative of rainbows in their wakes.

Each of the bits has its own ward drilled straight through the glass. Irregular tunnels that must look like a riddle to anyone save, maybe, Vanitas. She doesn’t actually need to look at the keychain to know it has three charms. Roxas’s thalassa for the left ward, Lea’s murex for the right. Her own cowrie is there too. Glossy, black, almost alien, save for the way she matches her blade.


End file.
